


Gravity Center

by NewWonder



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Chilton stays at Will's, Fluff, M/M, chillywilly tropes ahoy, hopefully will be at some point, idke wat, ill attempts at humor, which was initially supposed to be porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-06-13
Packaged: 2018-01-21 04:58:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1538495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NewWonder/pseuds/NewWonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will still wasn’t sure he had done the most reasonable thing when he let Chilton stay. But the other options were, to put it mildly, less than satisfying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Guys, I hafta warn ye, this shit is chock-full of newly minted chillywilly tropes. But we all love them, do we not? *hides*
> 
> Oh, and I no has a beta. Me sorry for le mistakes. (Feel free to point them out, I'd be very grateful!)

In a day or two after his unlikely guest came to stay, Will noticed Chilton needed a cane.

Chilton really made it look like it was more of an expensive, ostentatious accessory than a walking aid. But now that he didn’t have one, Will could see how badly Frederick limped. Something needed to be done about that.

Will didn’t have any actual cane at hand, of course—but he could make one. Between fixing boats and crafting fishing supplies, he had some experience with woodwork; making a simple cane was hardly rocket science.

When he presented his guest with the cane, Chilton scoffed and looked it up and down like it mortally offended his dignity.

“What _is_ this?” he inquired acidly, the ‘abomination’ or some equally contemptuous noun graciously left out.

“This,” Will said, “is a cane. You use it to walk. Or you don’t, but don’t expect me to lend a hand when you stumble over your own feet any of these days.”

Chilton made his thin lips into a _moue_ of displeasure. Will was getting tired of waiting with an outstretched hand.

“Are you going to take it or shall I put it away?”

When there was no reply, he turned around to stuff the damn thing into the nearest closet. A hand on his sleeve stopped him. Glancing at his hand, Will noticed that Chilton’s nails were just as groomed and carefully manicured as when he had last seen those fingers play leisurely with the knob of Frederick’s old ornate, gleaming cane, while its master showered Will with damnation in the courtroom.

(Ah, but the way Frederick’s hands had been stroking the cane-head was—obscene, really. What would good old Dr. Freud say about that?)

Those fingers, long and slim, soft and distinctly unfamiliar with manual labor, tightened slightly on his sleeve.

“I’ll have you know, I don’t really need a cane, Mr. Graham,” Chilton declared. “I use—used mine merely because it added a distinct, shall I say, flair to my image. But I do appreciate your efforts as my host; I will have your—gift. I may forget to use it from time to time; please don’t see it as a slight to your generosity.”

He grasped the knob and heavily leaned on the stick, relief prominent on his face despite his best efforts to hide it.

“I’m glad you would do this for me, Dr. Chilton,” Will carefully said, observing Chilton’s posture and the way his palm rested on the cane-head. The height was suitable, and Will took care to polish the wood so that it wouldn’t give Chilton any splinters; as far as he could see, the stick would do.

He went for the jacket. He still needed to buy the groceries.

A quiet voice stopped him in the doorway.

“Will—thank you. I appreciate your concern.”

“It’s nothing,” it was particularly chilly outside. For a moment Will contemplated staying at home with his dogs (and his unlikely guest), but they were almost out of staples, kibble as well as human food. “You want something from the store?”

“Ah, actually, I have a list...” Chilton produced a neatly folded paper from his chest pocket. “These are the essentials. I trust it wouldn’t be a bother to get them; I wouldn’t want to abuse your hospitality.”

“Organic strawberries,” Will read. “Shiitake and oyster mushrooms.”

“As you presumably know, after my—encounter with our mutual friend I cannot digest animal proteins. Thus, I have to make do with the remaining options,” Frederick made a face.

“Purplestripe garlic and saffron.” Will read the rest of the list silently, folded his glasses and carefully tucked them away along with the list. Frederick winningly smiled at him. He was leaning on the cane, Will noted. So much for the decorative purposes.

“These,” Will said, “are _not_ essentials.”

Frederick’s face fell and then pinched into an indignant scowl.

“I’ll have you know, my diet is already _very_ limited,” he declared with affront, “and I can’t possibly narrow it down even further!”

“My house, my rules. No gourmet vegetables, no fancy mushrooms. You may have had the money for that, but I don’t. And as long as you stay here— that is, until you are cleared of all charges—your best friends are apples and oatmeal. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but there’s really nothing that can be done about it.”

Will left Chilton on the porch, gaping like a fish. Honestly, the man was such a child sometimes.

 

Will still wasn’t sure he had done the most reasonable thing when he let Chilton stay. But the other options were, to put it mildly, less than satisfying.

He could call Jack, and then Will would be further reinstated in his eyes as trustworthy and ready to cooperate. Besides, it would be best for Chilton, too. FBI custody guaranteed protection—from Hannibal, from the blood-hungry crowd that was bound to go after the pseudo-Ripper as soon as the news spilled. Frederick should have done it as soon as he came to, really; there would be a lot less reason to suspect him if he were the one who called the police and explained the situation. But Frederick panicked and ran—just as Hannibal planned. It seemed there was nothing this man didn’t account for in his plans. So intricate they were, not even a spider web but rather a neural network; pure living, ever-changing evil, truly unparalleled in its complexity and morbid genius.

But Will had lost a lot of faith in the FBI over the last several months. The only person in the structure he could call remotely competent had been probably already digested by Hannibal Lecter, the rest displayed for the whole world to see in a cruel, callous mockery of her analytical prowess. If he were honest with himself, Will wouldn’t trust his former colleagues with a case of pickpocketing now. And Frederick Chilton was a human being—not the nicest or the most honorable one, granted, but still, a person who had the right to live. Will didn’t trust Jack Crawford to protect that right; not anymore.

The second option was to let Chilton go on a run from law, and it didn’t bear considering. Terrified as he was, the man would probably crash his (very conspicuous) car into a tree no more than ten minutes after he left Will’s place. He probably didn’t have nearly enough money, and Will wouldn’t be able to lend him some even if he wanted to. He didn’t keep a lot of cash on hand; besides, he was not charity, and Chilton wasn’t exactly his bosom friend. The doctor wasn’t a very good psychiatrist, and Will severely doubted he would prove to be a better survivalist. He’d get found in no time. So, also a no-go.

There was only one option left, and Will really, really didn’t like it.

It also seemed like it was precisely what he was going to do.

The water shut off; Chilton took a rather long time to shower, but then again, it was understandable, given that he had been drenched in blood when he arrived. It must have been a huge shock for him, even despite his earlier encounter with Dr. Abel Gideon. There was a time when Will doubted he would ever get used to this—to the blood and gore, the grey veil of suffering on dead people’s faces, the stench of death, the buzzing of flies.

Precious little of those things could unsettle him now. No, he had other nightmare material nowadays.

Pressed suits, fastidiously coiffed hair. An understanding smile, a soothing voice, broad palms gently stroking his face as Will choked on the plastic of the tube that disappeared inside his body.

The nightmare stag— _his_ nightmare stag, rising from inside of him, crown of horns casting shadows upon everything Will’s eyes saw.

Will shook himself out of his musings: Chilton stood before him, cheeks flushed, hair damp and dripping. He either forgot to dry it at all or didn’t do it properly; a dark stain was spreading on the fabric of his T-shirt.

“Thank you,” he said, voice small and hoarse. “It was—very kind of you.”

As he fussed around, hastily stuffing his few belongings into his expensive travel bag, Will observed and came to a decision.

“Frederick,” he said. Chilton turned around, jumpy like a spooked rabbit. “I think I have a better idea.”

 

And that was how Dr. Frederick Chilton came to stay in his house. It had been only a week, and Will already sorely regretted it. The company hadn’t been in any way desirable in the first place, and it didn’t exactly prove pleasant, Will found. Chilton was snobbish and clingy, condescending and annoyingly anxious most of the time, ridiculously picky about his food and clothes, and, worst of all, he _talked_.

He talked to Will (or rather _at_ Will) when Will was eating, reading the news online, cooking, and even showering. (Will pretended to not hear him in the latter case.) He even talked when Will was out, it seemed. Will knew for a fact that Chilton talked to the dogs; they probably proved to be more sympathetic listeners than their master. Will was slightly baffled to find out that the prison could actually be more peaceful in terms of quiet and solitude; at least Chilton would pester him only an hour or so a day back then, and not all the damn time. Peace of mind sadly eluded Will these days.

Well, at least the dogs took a liking to the unexpected guest, and Chilton, though obviously unaccustomed to furry companionship, bore with them fairly well. He did question Will’s habit of bringing in strays, but Will reasonably pointed out that now Chilton himself was one, and Frederick thankfully shut up. He even learned the dogs’ names—probably because he had nothing better to do, and telling them apart could pose a fit challenge for the mind.

(Once Will found a small mutt, scruffy, mangy and flea-ridden. He washed and fed it, but still the dog would snap and growl at him when he tried to pet it. It was tiny, and its threats were more funny than alarming, but still, Will stood back and let it get used to its new home at its own pace.

The small mutt, proudly named Buster, would roam the house like its rightful master, and bite Will’s ankles, and chew on his shoes, and pee on the carpet. It was an independent little dog, and its capability to wreak havoc was truly astounding. Still, Will wasn’t particularly surprised when Buster tentatively licked his hand for the first time and wagged its short tail, begging for a treat. Patience and time were key in this business; the only thing one could do was give love, and expect nothing in return.

Will wasn’t particularly inclined to selflessly love and care for Dr. Chilton, and said doctor thankfully didn’t have the habit of peeing on the carpet. Still, the resemblance was astounding, and Chilton‘s reprieve from prison had to factor in heavily enough, even if there weren’t any belly rubs involved.)

The doctor was civil, courteous, admittedly grateful and oh-so-subtly sarcastic; also markedly whimsical and narcissistic, but that was Chilton for you. He also took up a habit of following Will around the house when Will was home, as if danger lay in each nook and every shadow, and Will was the only shield between Chilton and the terror that chased him.

Chilton clearly liked to keep himself busy; he all but confiscated Will’s laptop and spent hours on news sites, obsessively going over each and every article, video and even blog posts that could be related to the Ripper’s case. Will’s browser history also showed some specialized psychiatric sites, online academic journals and archives; Frederick obviously considered it his obligation to keep up with the latest news in his field even during his ‘forced leave’. Most surprisingly, Will discovered that Frederick spent quite a lot of time researching culinary sites.

That was probably understandable, though. Will was away most of the daytime, and while the dogs were good company for the soul, they couldn’t keep Chilton’s body fed. So the doctor had to make do with his own efforts.

Most of the time, they were piss-poor. Chilton obviously hadn’t felt the need to devote any of his time to cooking before; for all Will knew, Frederick could be learning from scratch. At least he washed the dishes after his failed experiments, and opened the windows so that the house wouldn’t stink of smoke and burnt garlic when Will came back. He made progress, though. On day 4 he welcomed Will with a dish that was unexpectedly edible.

“I made it for myself,” he said, “but you may try if you want.” He looked blatantly nervous.

Will was hungry; he hadn’t eaten since morning, and an hour ago he declined dinner at Hannibal’s (with great relish, he might add, even if it weren’t exactly conductive to his and Jack’s plan). He dug in with gusto, and while the potatoes were slightly undercooked, overall the meal was alright. He finished the plate, then finished seconds, then told Frederick:

“Thank you. It’s good.”

“Ah, it’s nothing,” Chilton negligently waved him off. There was a small smile on his lips, though, self-confident, somewhat pleased and just a little bit hopeful.

He was starved for approval, Will realized. It was so pathetically obvious, and yet Will never noticed. Chilton hadn’t _mattered_ before—at first he was an unwelcome distraction, just a fly buzzing under the ceiling, and then a tool which could prove useful. But now Will was starting to notice all those things, how Chilton would spend half an hour in front of the mirror every morning and never put the toilet seat down and took two sugars in his coffee every time, and always looked out for Will’s attention, poking him, prodding him, announcing news and discussing the cases Will investigated. Will was starting to see the intelligence behind the slightly goofy façade, to respect this funny little man who wanted to be the alpha dog so desperately and so hopelessly.

Did it mean he was starting to get _invested_?

That was definitely not part of the plan. That posed problems.

 

The clothes were a whole separate issue in themselves.

Chilton didn’t bring a lot of them with him, so it was practically a given that a moment would come when he exhausted his paltry supply of two clothing changes and would have to borrow Will’s shirt (or, God forbid, Will’s boxers.) When the need finally arose, Frederick stared upon the plaid shirt presented to him and then slowly looked up at Will like he had just seen a cockroach in his salad.

“What is this crime against style,” he demanded. Will shrugged.

“Well, if you’d rather walk around half-naked…” He made a move to put the shirt away, but Frederick practically snatched it out of his hands.

“Ah, it’s… okay. I suppose I could bear with it for a short while. Haven’t you refreshed your wardrobe recently, though? Not that I’d say that your new garments are a shining example of refined taste, but at least they don’t have _holes_ in them,” Frederick scrunched up his nose.

“Unlike me, you don’t need to look presentable for a cannibalistic murderer, and you could always stitch the holes if there are any,” Will pointed out. “Anyway, I’m not going to talk about style with a man obsessed with pinstripe shirts.”

“Your ignorance pains me,” Chilton facetiously sighed, sitting down on Will’s bed. Will nudged the shirt drawer closed with his foot. “I’ll have you know, pinstripe shirts are perfect for formal attire. You might want to remember that if you want to… impress.”

“’Formal’ isn’t exactly what I’m going for, you know,” Will sat down beside him, resting his chin on his hands. Frederick nodded, jerkily, understanding Will’s implications and seemingly scared by this understanding. Will went on, looking down at his knees:

“It’s—a whirlpool, what I’m letting happen to me right now. I’m trying to struggle because it’s _terrifying_ , more horrible than even Lecter could ever be—feeling this beast inside me grow, this… cancer-like madness—but the more I fight the deeper it drags me. I might become not the most… safe companion any of these days, Frederick.”

“Please don’t worry Mr. Graham,” Frederick proudly held his head high, and his voice almost didn’t shake when he said: “I’m a qualified psychiatrist, I’m sure I can manage whatever psychosis you develop as a part of this assignment. Do have some faith in me.”

“Oh, I do, Dr. Chilton,” Will smiled. “Now more than ever.”

Chilton suspiciously squinted at him, trying to decide whether he was being mocked. But Will smiled like he hadn’t in several days, ever since he came back home to his dogs. Chilton had believed him, one out of three people in the whole world; now it was Will’s turn to believe in Chilton.

“I still think your haircut is appalling,” Chilton added, hiding his gaze from Will’s smiling eyes. “It looks—sleazy,” he made a face.

“What, did you like the old one better?” Chilton was genuinely funny when he wasn’t trying to get famous on behalf of Will. Maybe it was a good thing that he stayed, Will thought. It would be—unsettling to be alone with himself after his time with Lecter. It was convenient to have a distraction at home, loud and obnoxious though it might be.

“I think it suited you better. Made you look like a proper maniac, I mean.” Two pale pink splotches appeared on Frederick’s cheekbones. Interesting.

Frederick himself sported a largely disheveled hairdo (from all the dog love he received this morning) and three-day old scruff (probably an attempt at a makeover.) Privately, Will thought the latter suited Frederick better than the clean-shaven style he adopted since they first met in the hospital; it distracted from Chilton’s weak mouth and jawline, made him look more masculine (and admittedly more attractive, too.) It wasn’t like Will was going to offer Frederick fashion advice in turn, of course.

They sat side by side for a minute or two, before Will said:

“I’m going out today; I need to dress. Do you mind?..”

“Oh—no, of course not. Thank you for the shirt—and for the chance to learn sewing, by the way.”

“You are welcome,” Will responded serenely.

The dogs enthusiastically welcomed Chilton at the door. Will listened to his indignant squeaks, then rose to choose a shirt for tonight.

He told himself he didn’t shiver in expectation.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late update is late, sorry y'all wonderful people D8 Your amazing reviews made me very very happy, I can't thank you enough! I can only hope I don't disappoint.
> 
> Oh, and I said this was supposed to be pr0n? I lied. (Inadvertently. :'D ) There's like 0.001% of porn in this fic (at least compared to the intended amount, which was 9000%.)
> 
> I should probably put up OOC as a warning, but eh. (What do you think? If you feel the OOC is significant enough to warrant it, I'll totally tag this shit.)

Will has seen Chilton’s house—as part of the investigation, of course. Looking at the vast sterile expanse of it, he couldn’t help but remember Chilton’s office in the hospital. Hundreds, thousands of books filling the tall bookcases; antiques, curious little trinkets. Chilton’s house was posh, of course, and generously decorated with pieces of art equally as rare and expensive as those in his office, and kept meticulously clean.

In fact, it looked more like an art gallery than a home—and there was nothing less like Chilton with his busy plaid suits and shiny accessories than the untouched, unblemished, empty whiteness of the walls and furniture in his house.

“What are you going to do with your house?” Will asked later that night.

“What do you mean, ‘do with my house’? What should I do with it?” Chilton answered irritably. He was doing yoga in front of the TV. The floor, of course, had been meticulously cleaned beforehand from dog hair and suchlike litter.

“Are you really going to come back and live there, once the investigation is over? After Lecter turned it into a veritable abattoir?”

Frederick shrugged impatiently, like he was chasing a fly away. He was clearly immersed in his yoga; Will noticed he had Will’s shirt on. It was slightly overlarge and patently not Frederick’s style. Chilton probably decided to spare his good shirts the unfortunate destiny of rolling around in dog fur.

Will decided he really wanted a shower. It was freezing outside; besides, hot water washed away the stress like nothing else.

“Just saying, you must have a lot of guts to still want to stay in that house,” Will mentally counted the clean shirts he had left, and found out, to his chagrin, that it was high time to do the laundry. He still had a couple of clean ones, though, so that would do for now. Only then he noticed (or rather felt with something just under his skin) Chilton’s strange stillness.

The silence seemed all the more deafening for the sound of the yoga instructor’s chatter on TV. It was almost as if Frederick stopped breathing.

“Did I say something wrong?” Will asked.

“Ha. Ha. Ha.” Frederick slowly clapped and unsteadily rose from the floor. “Such a brilliant joke. You truly are the paragon of wit.”

Will stared at him for a moment, and then remembered Chilton’s injuries.

“No, I wasn’t—making a joke,” Chilton looked so distrustful, so _hurt_ ; Will had no idea his guest was that sensitive. “I didn’t mean it like that. All I wanted to say is that it requires great braveness to return to the place where such terrible things had happened to you.”

Chilton’s gaze remained wary, but his tense posture slightly loosened. He heavily sat down on the couch.

“I don’t have it,” he whispered. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with that hellish place. Sell it, maybe. There would be a lot of buyers. The history on that one, almost like a haunted house—it would sell like hot cakes. But I’m not going back there, not in a thousand years.”

“I’m not as brave as you must have thought, Mr. Graham. I can’t imagine you are too disappointed; you never respected me much anyway, did you? I’d have thought you would just call Agent Crawford and be done with it when I came to your house. Why didn’t you, really? It would be such an opportunity to prove your—loyalty.”

“I need you alive,” Will answered simply. Frederick smiled—it was a horrible, painful, crooked thing.

“Do you, really?”

“I’m not letting him have this round, too. That sound psychopathic enough for you, doctor?” Will shrugged. “I do respect you—now that you’ve stopped trying to turn my brains inside out. You are a valuable witness… And, to be honest, I think these days you have become my anchor.”

“...‘Anchor’?” Frederick clearly stopped following the track of Will’s thoughts.

“Lecter was supposed to be my—‘paddle’, you know. My other way out. You are aware of how well this ended. I trusted him, and now I have to fight him; to _become_ him, put on his skin, his style, his mannerisms, his way of thinking, so that he’d believe me. I am afraid of getting lost; again. To be honest... there is a part of me that wants me to get lost.”

“Your presence makes me feel more—secure, like I have something to hold on to. Something that won’t let me get washed away.”

Frederick scoffed:

“The patient, developing an unhealthy obsession with the doctor? Wouldn’t be the first time. You should be aware that I’m always ready to provide therapy, Will; heaven knows you would benefit from my care.”

Buster trotted to their side and happily licked Chilton’s hand, making him sputter and reach for the wet wipes. The man was positively _obsessed_ with hygiene.

Chilton’s eyes had always spoken truer than his mouth. This time, like many before, Will didn’t even bother listening to him. But he thought he had never seen Chilton’s eyes so hopeful and—vulnerable, like he almost expected to be laughed at. Clearly, the man had a lot of issues.

“Isn’t it time for lunch?” Will idly pondered.

“I’m a doctor, not your cook!” Chilton declared and got up from the couch to cook lunch.

 

Chilton had several strange habits. (Apparently Will was gradually becoming an expert.)

First one: he sang. (In the shower, no less.) The first time Will came back home and heard a passionate rendition of Madonna’s _Like a Virgin_ accompanied by the melodious purling of water, he nearly laughed aloud. The strangest thing was that Frederick actually _could_ sing; he had a very nice velvety voice with an impressive range, and clearly boasted expansive training. He could probably become a professional singer, and a pretty good one—certainly better than the doctor he was.

Will caught him singing in the shower several times; it turned out he could actually like listening to Chilton’s voice. 

Of course, it was inevitable that this new singing Chilton would come out of the shower one day.

Usually Will was rarely back home before darkness, and the free afternoon came almost as a surprise for him. Of course, his other cohabitants expected him to return even less than Will himself had a couple of hours ago, so Will opportunely came back to the sight of Chilton cooking and humming Madonna’s _Frozen_ in the kitchen (what was it with Chilton and Madonna?)

“Hello,” he said, standing in the doorway.

Chilton squeaked in the most undignified way, his voice going sharp in the middle of the note.

“You—you—you could have warned me you were back!” he wheezed, eyes comically wide with fright.

“Why don’t you ever sing outside of the shower? I mean, when I can hear?” Will asked.

“I didn’t want to disturb you,” Chilton waved his hand. It was covered in tomato chunks and dripping with juice; apparently he squeezed the vegetable too tight in panic. Will felt slightly sorry.

“I like it,” he said. “You are a good singer.”

“Best in class,” Chilton immediately declared smugly, puffing up. “To be honest, I almost considered becoming a professional singer. Everybody thought that one day I would become a Broadway star.”

“Why didn’t you?” Will asked.

Chilton fell silent for a long time.

“It wasn’t—respectable, I guess,” he finally answered. “I was younger, and more frivolous. That was the only reason I considered this career path at all.”

“What stopped you?”

“A life like this, it’s risky. In truth, it’s sink or swim in this business. And, to be entirely honest, I’ve never been really good with swimming. So I discussed the issue with my parents, and they confirmed the opinion I already had on the subject. A man like me is not really suited for such an unpredictable, bohemian way of life.”

“Don’t you ever regret it?” Will had a feeling like he was cutting Chilton open, but as long as the man didn’t resist the scalpel, he figured it was fine.

“Sometimes, mostly when I sing. I do it less now. Or did. Staying in your house seems to call out to my inner diva.”

“I’d like it if you sang more often,” Will offered. He knew Chilton saw that his offer was genuine.

“I—maybe I will,” Frederick said slowly.

“Just how many Broadway songs do you know?”

Chilton’s cheeks burned pink. Will guessed the answer was probably ‘all of them’, or something close to that.

 

And here came the second thing: Chilton became strangely—one could only describe that as ‘shy’, when Will was around. He would avert his eyes and sometimes even stare at seemingly random parts of Will, like his hands, and shy away from Will’s occasional touches.

One Sunday morning Will came down to the kitchen in his underwear, languorously scratching his balls; the sweat after a bad night’s sleep always made him itch in the most uncomfortable places. Chilton cast one look upon him and dropped the skillet. The boiling oil thankfully didn’t burn anyone, including the dogs, but it was a major pain to clean.

That was when Will started to suspect something.

The first hypothesis, immediately categorized as ‘unlikely to be of any substantial relevance even if proven true’ (if Will decided to look into it anyway, it was out of pure idle curiosity), was that Chilton was incredibly prudish. Remembering the way his fingers caressed his cane during the hearing, Will thought there might be some truth to that. The deliberate, overt sensuality of those movements practically screamed repressed, channeled sexuality.

Once Will purposely changed the TV to an adult channel. Frederick vigorously voiced his distaste, but Will observed that the good doctor would peek at the TV screen from the corner of his eye every now and then, until Will changed the show to _American Idol_ (at which point Frederick demonstratively left the room.)

The second hypothesis was that Frederick was attracted to him. Not professionally (though the professional curiosity still remained, Will could see it in the way Frederick discussed the latest news on crime in general and one intelligent artistic cannibalistic serial murderer in their immediate neighborhood in particular with Will. The way Chilton still spoke to him like a psychiatrist to his patient could be really grating, Will found, even it was more covert and roundabout now); not in a friendly way (though it looked to Will like Chilton was slowly growing to consider him his friend, and, most unexpectedly, Will came to realize that he was starting to feel the same.)

No, this particular attraction seemed to be of the sort Will still felt (albeit somewhat weaker) for Alana; was doing his best to stop feeling for the very person that built a wall between Alana and Will _(Will and the rest of the world, so that the two of them would be alone in the dark.)_

One morning Will heard a muffled moan when he was passing the shower, now steadfastly occupied by Chilton. (The man dedicated _hours_ to washing and pampering his body. At first Will with his habit of quick perfunctory showers was slightly taken aback.) He sped up his steps, because _that?_ Not an image he needed before breakfast. But the sound he heard next made him stop in his tracks.

His shower was loud, and Will might have heard incorrectly with all the splashing. But still, he was pretty sure that the sound he just heard was his name—followed by the dull thud of a fist connecting with the wall.

Second hypothesis safely upgraded to a theory, Will thought and went to the kitchen to find something for breakfast. There were some bananas in the fruit basket. Will stared at them and tried searching for cereal. No such luck. Apples, finished last evening. Desperate, he tried for some canned food and discovered that it was high time to take another trip to the supermarket.

When Frederick came down, absently drying his hair with a fluffy towel, Will was leaning on the counter in his boxers (he felt most comfortable sleeping in his underwear, and having a snobbish psychiatrist refugee in his house was no reason to change his habits), eating a banana.

Frederick choked and coughed so hard Will nearly expected him to spit out a lung. The towel plopped down on the floor.

“Are you okay?” Will asked around his banana, reaching out to slap Frederick on the back.

“Fine, I’m, uh, totally fine. I’ll, um, I’ll be going now. Enjoy your, uh, meal,” Frederick stammered, retreating crabwise from the room.

Chilton moped around in the corners the whole weekend and would immediately hide his eyes if Will caught him looking. The dogs seemed to be concerned, following Frederick around the house at all times and offering slobbery condolences. Chilton got tired of escaping them in the end and fatalistically accepted that no wet wipes would save him from the marks of dog love.

He also finally started answering Will’s attempts to draw him into a conversation. Granted, he shied away from Will’s attention until Sunday night, but it was the ‘what’ that mattered, not the ‘when.’

He got very animated during their nightly discussion, almost as much as when he had delivered his speech in the courtroom. Frederick Chilton _loved_ talking, loved showing off. His current audience wasn’t very appreciative or responsive, but still, Will unexpectedly liked these hours spent talking to another person, a regular, normal human being—because he wasn’t sure he could call Lecter human. Chilton was the paragon of normalcy, with his fairly quick wits and slightly-higher-than-average intellect, and the fervent desire to stand out that was really exceptionally common. It felt comforting to talk to him, and it was better still to feel human again, next to him.

Will didn’t know exactly what Lecter was methodically turning him into (or maybe he just didn’t want to know), but he was sure about one thing: that being, that beast that grew inside him, was as distant from humanity as Lecter was from remorse.

And here Will was, a ticking H-bomb, pondering on Dr. Chilton’s probable attraction to him and also possibly considering him as a potential sexual partner. When the fire is burning the roof of their house, people often grab the strangest things as they flee in panic. Grandmother’s embroidery, an old china vase complete with flowers and water, a stuffed toy their grown-up son used to sleep with two decades ago. Which one was Frederick Chilton—a stuffed toy, or a china vase?

Useless, breakable—and yet Will held on to him like Frederick Chilton was the single most crucial thing in his life, Will’s sole chance for survival.

That was why Will was more scared than he wanted to admit when he found Chilton sick in the guest bedroom. The man took great care of himself and would never let himself freeze or so much as catch a draught, so it must have been the nerves finally catching up to him. Whatever the reason, the fever was high; Chilton sweated so heavily he got the sheets soaked through, and he tossed and turned in the crumpled blankets, restless. His lips were dry, chapped and cracked, and his hair matted, tangled, and wet with perspiration.

Will gave him lemon water, put a cold compress on his forehead, and then sat at Chilton’s side for five hours straight, immobile and staring into the distance, because he had no other place to be.

Before, it hadn’t concerned him this much (or even at all). Before, he didn’t have a best friend who would slowly eat his sense of self with tiny bites, delicately slicing off one belief after another. Before, this little man wasn’t the only person who held him grounded in the reality of himself—a prompter, backwards, reminding Will every day that his role in the grand play he was enacting was just that—a role, to play Lecter. Nothing more; nothing less.

He waited, sleepless, thoughtless, staring into the murky gloom of the night. When the shadows started to fade and dissolve in the pallid morning light, Frederick sighed and turned on his side, and started breathing deeply and evenly.

Will was surprised to feel the left corner of his mouth twitch in something that might have been a smile. He leaned back in the chair and let himself fall into a dark, dreamless sleep.

Muffled sounds woke him up when it wasn’t noon yet. He opened his eyes and held still, careful, watchful.

The same hushed moan sounded again, inappropriately loud in the quiet room.

"Will," Frederick sighed, quiet and husky, the man himself clearly still asleep—and in the middle of a very peculiar dream, if the sheen of sweat above his upper lip and the tell-tale movements of his hips under the blanket were anything to go by. And then again: _“Will,”_ a soft, deep-throated moan. Frederick licked his lips, his hair tousled and very dark against the white pillowcase; and Will found, less than surprised, that he was half-hard and definitely interested in the spectacle.

After all, it wasn’t like he was getting any otherwise.

There were other options, but they were all too disturbing. More disturbing than Chilton, that is.

It was vaguely amusing how those options were opened to Will by the very man who denied him his clear mind and sound judgment. That man changed Will’s life in so many ways, reshaped his perception of himself, opened depths that used to be securely locked and buried; he formed and fashioned Will like a bonsai—all to fit his peculiar ideas of beauty; friendship; love.

Will was so damn tired of being someone’s Galatea. Will was so damn sick of the mute longing that still permeated the deep, passionate hatred he felt for Hannibal Lecter. Sometimes he still felt like Hannibal Lecter was his only friend in the whole world; he’d subject himself to therapeutic thoughts of wringing Hannibal’s neck with his bare hands, but then he’d imagine skin on skin, and his own throat would go dry, and a cold snake would uncoil in his belly where it slept, and slither up, up to his heart, wrap around it in a slippery embrace and squeeze, steadily, relentlessly, mercilessly, until Will was left shaking and gasping.

It was a cold hard fact: Hannibal Lecter got so deep under his skin there was no getting him out. He was in Will’s bones, and sinew, and muscle; Will’s blood was poisoned, bitter with his deception. Hannibal wanted him, and Hannibal got him—

...but Will was no prey.

(Of course Hannibal knew it. Of course Hannibal would want him this way, would be _proud_ of him. Will would try to kill him, and Hannibal would praise and celebrate the flower the bud of Will’s madness was slowly blossoming into.)

(Will hated it.)

(Will was thrilled by it, deep in the shadows of his mind.)

But there was one thing he knew, one thing he was sure about: Hannibal Lecter had to be stopped, no matter the price. Even it would cut something out of Will himself.

So, it was up to him to ensure that there would be as little as possible to cut out when the time came.

Thus, Option #1, a no-go. Option #2 (not that Will was interested, but it was nice to have a choice), locked away in a hospital— or maybe locked away in a cell already. There were some other prospects, very minor and insignificant; all male. Hannibal took away all the women Will cared about; only one of them was still alive, and every night Will went to sleep with the thought of, "For how long?"

So, Chilton wasn’t the worst variant, not by far. And his little infatuation was indeed pathetically obvious (and immediately confirmed by his boisterous body language. Dr. Chilton was such an expressive man.)

And Will was in the middle of a long dry spell.

How was it his life.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Frederick, you dirty lil bitch you.](http://queen-of-paint.tumblr.com/post/83459233178/he-that-has-eyes-to-see-and-ears-to-hear-may) Imo that was the most explicit sexual imagery in the whole show, Y/Y?  
>  It would be most beneficial if you kept those gifs in mind while reading the chapter. <3

Will came back home torn and falling apart, the cold confident feel of the gun still lingering on his fingers. He felt angry; he felt defeated; he felt defiant. He severely doubted he made the right choice—again.

He regretted he let Lecter choose for him.

The very presence of that posh, prim, immaculate monster felt exhilarating and overpowering, challenging like nothing else before; like a walk on a tightrope over an abyss. The warmth in those eyes looked so staggeringly sincere.

Tiredly, Will thought poor Peter was really nothing like him, the way Will was now. His new self emerged bloody and furious, like Ingram from the horse womb; purification, restoration, tempering, all by the hand of someone who used to be his friend—for it was the only way they knew how to show they cared.

Will was shaking by the time he reached the doors. His dogs greeted him: wet noses and raspy tongues on his palms—but Will shuddered and held his hands up. Normal was something he couldn’t do just now.

“Will?” Chilton showed up from the living room, hair tousled—clearly, he’d been napping. He was wearing Will’s clothes, again. He tended to do that much more often now.

“What did you dream of this morning?” Will abruptly asked.

“This mor—oh. Nothing, that was nothing,” Frederick fidgeted and shuffled, looking anywhere but at Will. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m—” Will considered his word choice, “curious. You seemed to be quite—affected by it.”

“Really? I don’t remember. Maybe it was a nightmare, I do get them much more often these days.”

“It didn’t look like an unpleasant dream,” Will carefully watched Chilton’s face, all the tiny twitches and subtle changes.

“I—why do you want to talk about it that much? Are you, by any chance, planning on being my therapist, as well as my host?”

“I just want to know,” Will leaned in, so close he was a breath away from Chilton, “what makes you _tick._ ”

He smiled. Chilton twitched and jerked back, looking at him with open alarm.

“Tell me, _Frederick_ ,” Will continued, “what was my part in that dream of yours? Judging by the number of times I heard you say my name, it was quite—prominent.”

Frederick went red.

“What do you want me to say?” he asked quietly. “And do I really need to say it? _FBI profiler Graham?_ ”

“No, you don’t need to,” Will liked it; liked having the power to make Chilton squirm. “But I want you to. Is that really such a big problem?”

“Very well, then,” Frederick said, his voice tired. “I dreamed about you. About your face, your hands, your body… on mine. Satisfied now?”

“Not yet. What did I do?”

“You—held me. Touched me. You told me—do we really need to do this?”

“Were you hard?” Will asked blithely.

“Y—yes, I was.”

“Are you hard now?”

It wasn’t like Will needed to ask when he could see it with his own two eyes, but this little conversation proved to be a lot of fun. Frederick just looked at him with defeated eyes.

“Yes,” he said. He held his palms locked in front of him.

Will leaned in.

“And how does that make you feel?” he asked.

 

Chilton stopped singing. Now, when he took his hour-long showers, the only sound coming from the bathroom was the sound of water.

Will was surprised to find out he missed it. He missed the ease, the tentative friendship they had. He missed Chilton’s biting commentary on the ridiculous TV programs he dragged Will into watching, he missed the discussions on criminal psychology and even Chilton’s disdainful looks at Will’s choice of groceries. Now Chilton didn’t look condescending; he just looked haunted.

Maybe it was for the better. Will got too attached; he didn’t need this right now. He never needed this.

One evening Will came back home to find Chilton in the dark house in front of a switched-off TV. The dogs were gathered around him, whining softly. There was a bottle of brandy next to him; it was half-empty.

“Throwing yourself a little pity party?” Will asked, hanging his coat. He received no indication that Chilton even heard him.

“Hey,” Will shook him a little. Chilton’s eyes were glassy and unfocused.

“What am I going to do with you,” Will sighed.

Chilton’s usually carefully coiffed hair looked disheveled, and his breath stank of alcohol. He mumbled something and blearily opened his eyes. Will held his head, trying to get through to him. Their lips were a split hair apart—how did Will get that close?

Chilton shut his eyes tight again and suddenly lunged forward, pressing his lips to Will’s. The kiss was clumsy, desperate and slobbery. Will responded.

It felt good, despite Chilton’s tongue being everywhere and their noses getting sorely in the way. Frederick buried his hand in Will's hair, fingers carding through Will’s locks. That felt pleasant; Will shuddered.

They kissed for a long time, enough to make them run both out of breath. Frederick was shaking and moaning under him, falling apart. Finally Will pulled away from him and gripped Frederick’s shoulders.

“Go to sleep now,” he said hoarsely.

“Come with me,” Frederick’s voice was pleading, broken. He looked so weak; there was no place for weakness in Will’s life these days.

“Okay,” he said, and helped Frederick up.

Chilton fell asleep before his head hit the pillow. Will took off his shirt and trousers, folded them and climbed into bed where Frederick was tossing and turning, restless. He immediately quieted down when he felt Will’s touch, and curled into him like a big cat.

Their legs got tangled, and Will’s shoulder fell asleep before Will did, and Chilton’s hair got into Will’s nose.

Will hadn’t slept so well in a long time.

 

After that, they established a tentative truce. Frederick would cook, and they would eat and talk, and sometimes they would watch TV or read the news pressed to each other from shoulder to hip. But their interaction was more deliberate now, tense with a chill of anticipation. Maybe they were both waiting for something. Maybe they were both reluctant to act.

A sprout, bursting out from the seed sowed into darkness. Changing, morphing, first pale and frail but growing stronger, strong enough to push through the thick of the earth and rise up to the sky. Genesis is change, genesis is struggle.

Will was changing—was letting his dearest enemy mold him, ruin and reshape him into something different; something stranger. Will felt Lecter change, too, open up and lower his defenses for Will, affection and trust offered to Will on a plate; the longing, the strange fragility that looked so out of place on this monster of a man, making something inside Will hurt. And the reluctant cohabitation between Will and his unlikely lodger was changing, too; growing into something unfamiliar, strange and appealing.

It seemed so small compared to the murder games Will played; and yet, for some reason, it felt important—necessary even, to come back home to Madonna’s songs and hair products everywhere in the bathroom (Chilton made Will buy them; of course, he would grouse and gripe every time after Will brought home the ordered goods, dissatisfied with the brand and quality. Will, in turn, staunchly disliked the coarseness of product on Chilton’s hair, so that made them even.)

Outwardly, the changes this weird relationship instigated in him manifested in small things. Mostly Will just jacked off more often now.

Chilton, though, was a whole other story.

It seemed sometimes that he made it his mission to show how little he cared about Will and all things Will-related. He would casually insult the décor of Will’s house and his choice of attire, criticize his methods of work, psychoanalyze his social life (or lack thereof), and go through his files on the laptop (apparently he thought Will wouldn’t notice. Small miracle he was still alive with that much of a penchant for groundless assumptions about dangerous people.) He would walk around the house with his nose up in the air, brandishing his wooden cane like it was a scepter, and steal Will’s nicer shirts. (Will still wasn’t sure about his boxers; his documents were one thing, but his underwear, he cared about just enough to keep it clean.)

But then Will would catch little glances, reluctant at first but growing bolder; the way Frederick would lean towards him when they were dining together, and (apparently unconsciously) shift closer on the couch; the way Frederick would lick his own lips and stare at Will’s when they talked; the way he followed Will around with his gaze, like someone newly awakened after surgery would stare at a glass of water.

He wouldn’t talk about that brandy-soaked evening, and Will had no desire to start that conversation either. The need simmered inside him, muddled and indistinct, but Will was content to let it stew.

He had a feeling he would like the resulting dish.

 

It was chilly outside, the snow falling slowly from the grey, dimming sky. Will’s nose got cold; he felt the frost even through the gloves. He got inside, obligatorily scratched the dogs behind their ears (they were swarming around him, clearly well-fed and now waiting for their due dose of cuddles), washed his hands, and made himself a cup of tea. The brand was new to him—some top quality kind Chilton wouldn’t give up on, no matter what Will had to say about his decadent ways. There were some things about which one really could rely on Chilton’s judgment, it turned out.

Chilton himself was tapping away on Will’s laptop, clearly immersed in whatever he was writing.

“I’m going to need the laptop soon,” Will said, sitting down and getting comfortable in the armchair, his palms wrapped around the cup to chase off the lingering chill.

“You can wait, I’ve just gotten my inspiration back,” Chilton waved him off with one hand, the other still frantically flying over the keys.

“‘Inspiration’? What, are you writing a novel or something?” Will actually got up to look from behind Chilton’s shoulder. Frederick hastily minimized the window, but Will managed to steal a glance.

_‘… altered state of consciousness induced by intravenously administered psychedelic substances and the usage of strobe lights in the setting of acute autoimmune encephalitis produced a potent effect of lacunar amnesia and …’_

“I’m the one who feeds you, you know,” Will said. “And I know the password to your files. You just use one for all your stuff, it’s really careless of you.”

“But—how—” Frederick stuttered.

“I used to be a homicide detective, you know. And a pretty decent one, too,” Will extracted the laptop from Chilton’s limp hands and opened the browser. TattleCrime, of course, was on fire with talks about the latest artfully arranged victim. Life in Baltimore was an exciting life—in the case you wanted to die young, of course.

“Actually, now that you mention it,” Chilton frowned at his empty lap, “I realize how little I know about your life. Besides what’s written in your file, of course.”

“Likewise,” Freddie’s writing style was a perfectly horrid specimen of the purest purple prose there ever was. Will wrinkled his nose. “I guess we both know about each other no more than the public knows, and that’s it.”

“Why did you resign?” Chilton asked quietly.

“Oh no, I’m not giving you any more material for your little pamphlet. Freddie’s on to something; I think she doesn’t believe you are the Ripper. Come see, this was posted just two minutes ago.”

“I knew there had to be someone sensible in this damned city,” Frederick grumbled, reaching for his cane. “I still cannot believe it. How could _anyone_ think I was able to do those things? What would I do with all that meat—I can’t even _eat_ it, for God’s sake!”

He leaned over Will’s shoulder, trying to read the article. He smelled like Will’s aftershave with a ship on the bottle (allegedly horrid, now confirmed by _two_ more or less respected psychiatrists), and apples (for which he indeed formed a great appreciation, just like Will suggested he would have to.) His mouth moved, forming some irrelevant words.

A lot of what Frederick Chilton said and did was irrelevant. It could be amusing, it could be annoying, or Will could just tune it off and proceed with his own business, deaf to the sound of Chilton nattering in the background.

It turned out, Will might also just have a new and efficient way to shut him up.

It seemed to be pleasant for both parties; it definitely was for Chilton, judging from the way he seemingly forgot all about the article and clutched at Will’s shoulder, the other palm cupping Will’s cheek, cane dropping at his feet. His eyes were closed, and his lips were hungry.

As for Will, he wasn’t so sure yet, but this was certainly worth the wait. Moreover, he definitely felt this needed further development.

The laptop ended up on the floor (Will took care to put it down as gently as possible, but, seeing as he was otherwise preoccupied, minor damage to the device wasn’t entirely out of the question.) Chilton gamely replaced the device in Will’s lap, grasping his shirt unsteadily, already disheveled and prominently hard. You’d think he hadn’t been with someone in a while.

But then again, maybe he hadn’t. Will himself wasn’t much luckier in this department, and, though he was thankfully able to show a lot more self-restraint, his pants were getting tighter, too.

“Let’s move this to the bedroom, at least,” Will nudged Frederick, distractedly lifting his shirt (one of Will’s nicer ones. The man had no shame.)

Frederick made a weak protesting noise, his lips flushed and his eyes glazed over. He didn’t look like he even heard a single word. Will sighed.

He wasn’t the young man he used to be, but Chilton, surprisingly, wasn’t too heavy. Chilton squeaked and clutched at Will’s shoulders, his eyes round. Will put him down and frog-marched him all the way to the bedroom, where they finally, finally tumbled into bed. Will got Frederick trapped under his own body, and chuckled. He honestly couldn’t help it; Chilton looked like a rabbit, all wide-eyed, hair sticking out of his perfect hairdo.

Will kissed him before he could get offended, and stuck a hand down Chilton’s pants. He was always a straightforward man (straight, too. Or so he believed, until a couple of weeks ago. Now, apparently not so much.)

Chilton shuddered and came.

“Well, that was… unexpected,” Will contemplated, wiping his hand on Chilton’s pants. Frederick flushed an ugly red and hid his eyes. “Care to return the favor?”

Chilton jerkily nodded and blindly fumbled to open Will’s pants. After what seemed like an unnecessarily long time, he finally put his hand on Will’s cock, still carefully not looking into his eyes. His movements were detached, clinical, but his hands were still shaking.

“Look at me,” Will said. “Frederick, look at me!” he repeated when Chilton didn’t.

Frederick jerked and looked up.

“Did you dream of this?” Will asked.

“Yes,” Frederick breathed out, seemingly paralyzed.

“Did you enjoy it, in your dreams?”

“Y—yes.”

“Tell me, Frederick,” Will pushed his hips into Frederick’s palm, brushing his fingers down Chilton’s pale chest, “do you enjoy it when I do _this_?”

He leaned down and breathed into Chilton’s neck, feeling him tremble; and then he licked a broad stripe, tasting skin, and sucked what would very soon be a large, prominent bruise.

 _“Yes,”_ Frederick’s eyes fluttered closed, his whole body melting into Will’s. His hand moved more confidently now, twisting and stroking like he probably would stroke himself, making Will gasp and bury his face in Chilton’s shoulder.

He came into Chilton’s palm not long afterwards, hips jerking spasmodically, T-shirt sticking to his sweaty back. He felt Chilton’s other hand tentatively slide down his back and settle slightly below his waist, fingers splayed wide. Frederick looked as dazed as Will himself; he slowly brought his fingers to his mouth and sucked, looking so out of it that it was probably more of an instinctive response than a deliberate action. Will watched him, his mouth suddenly gone dry.

It was— _arousing_ , all of it. Will never thought he would apply the word to Chilton of all people, and yet here they were.

It wasn’t that Chilton was an unattractive man. It wasn’t even that he was _a man_ , period. No, he was—or used to be—furniture, like the annoying chair you always stubbed your toe on.

Well, he wasn’t now. What he _was_ , was incoherent and uncomfortable to lie on. Will rolled off and got up, pulling up his pants. When he looked down, Chilton was already asleep.

Will chuckled, disbelieving, and went to take a shower.

 

Chilton turned out to be _very_ horny. That in itself wasn’t much of a problem (or even particularly surprising, really), but he also liked to play hard to get. When Will wouldn’t play along (which was most of the time), Chilton would pout long and hard. Of course, Frederick himself would say that he carried himself around the house with an air of wounded dignity, but Will liked to call things by their names: what Frederick actually did was mope and slink around the house like a pissy cat, hissing and clawing at every pair of ankles that crossed its way. A couple of hours later (maybe a day or two if Frederick was feeling especially vindictive), he would come to Will and demand that he be scratched behind the ears.

Will was probably supposed to feel sorry and also rejoice that his lover (well, Will _did_ like to call things by their names) so benignly deigned to grace his unworthy cohabitant with his companionship. The truth was, Will mostly felt vexed when The Sulks were over, because they were the only time he could work in peace and without any distractions. Frederick would probably be extremely offended if he knew how easily he lost the battle for Will’s thoughts to mutilated dead bodies. (Frederick wasn’t even prettier than some of the most aesthetically sophisticated ones. Lecter, for example, surely knew how to decorate.)

But the sex was good, even if Chilton’s (patently rusty) sex skills had needed some breaking in. He was just as needy and pushy in bed as he was out of it; he would cling on to Will for dear life while he rode him, face flushed and hair deliciously disheveled (it mussed so ridiculously easily—one moderately heated makeout session, and the immaculate hairdo would be hopelessly ruined, no matter the amount of product Chilton poured on his head to make his hair look decent). He would beg and moan and scream, he would make tiny little squeaks that he would later vehemently deny (Will still debated with himself whether he should tell him how much he liked hearing that particular sound from him.) He whined, and mewled, and even cried sometimes when Will got rough the way Frederick liked; cheeks wet with tears, lips and chin glistening with saliva, he pushed back into Will and clutched the sheets in his fists. Frederick, he found out, liked being overwhelmed and overloaded. Maybe it helped him take everything else off his mind; Frederick still looked anxious sometimes, and he still had nightmares.

He was so very scared at first; scared to touch but greedy, obsessively curious. He would slither closer and closer in the couch while Will worked, until he was practically sitting in Will’s lap and breathing into his ear, and then later he would sleep so far from Will their bodies didn’t even touch, despite Will’s bed not being exactly a king-sized one. He would try to catch Will’s gaze, and then he would hide his eyes. He would make blueberry pie (Will’s favorite, and one Chilton could actually make fairly decently), and then eat it himself and get a horrible stomachache because Will had somehow offended his delicate sensibilities (Will was actually impressed with the magnitude of the childishness of the latter.)

He was amusingly expressive (which also manifested in his _loudness_. Will thanked God every day that he lived in the middle of nowhere and there were no annoyed neighbors around to hear Frederick scream,) and also remarkably responsive. Just Will’s fingers slowly trailing down his leg could make him gasp and shiver, going half-hard immediately; and yanking his hair when Will pounded into him never failed to make Frederick _howl_. Every part of him seemed to be ridiculously sensitive—his nipples, the inside of his elbows, the back of his knees, his crotch creases, that place just below his ear, the soles of his feet; everything but the scar on his belly.

It was relatively large but quite tidy; Gideon clearly knew what he was doing. The scarring wasn’t even that ugly or prominent; yet Frederick would always flinch when Will traced it with his fingers. Still, there was something about Chilton’s scar that made Will touch it again and again, and eventually Frederick gave up and stopped trying to escape, and would just lie there, his stomach quivering, almost seizing under Will’s fingertips as Will studied the thick discolored skin.

“I believe I know why you like it so much,” he said once, relaxed and well-fucked and pink all over, glistening with fresh sweat.

Will made a hmmm-ing noice, fingers gliding distractedly over Frederick’s soft belly. His lover’s attempts to psychoanalyze him got less annoying and more amusing over time. Will even turned his head to meet Frederick’s eyes.

“You are _fascinated_ ,” Fredcerick said slowly, carefully picking the words, “with the way he took me apart and pulled out what was hidden deep inside. With the way the surgeons managed to fit it back into place... only not entirely. Something was lost, and something fit wrong, and now I will never be the man I was before. This is you picking on the scabs—isn’t it, Will? Does it make your own itch better?”

Will stared at him long and unblinking. He thought about how Frederick never, not once, mentioned Gideon by the name during his stay in Will’s house.

His lover was weak and soft, but still somehow stronger than most of the people Will knew. Disfigured and scarred, he was still there, lying in Will’s bed with his hair mussed and lips bitten raw.

Will thought about how Frederick, surprisingly, did make it better. He was still a shit doctor, but a clever man, in more ways than one; with his hands and mouth, too.

Will decided that, in the end, he was glad he let Frederick Chilton stay.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here be shameless shmoop.

When Will first suggested that Chilton suck his dick, Frederick stared at him, affronted, and then looked at said dick like it was a cockroach.

“I just did you,” Will pointed out, “it’s only fair that you return the favor.”

“Well, if you insist…” Chilton gingerly got on his knees and pushed Will’s knees apart. He was still _staring_ at Will’s cock with mild trepidation, which was a definite mood killer. He hesitated before putting it into his mouth, as if Will’s dick was a balut egg or some other exotic dish from “The Weirdest Food” list. Will was nearly ready to push him away when Frederick finally put his lips on Will, carefully licking and tasting, taking just the head inside his mouth.

In a minute of two, though, it became clear to Will that it wasn’t the first time Frederick did this. He definitely knew where to lick and how to suck, how much force to apply and what parts to bother with. It wasn’t exactly surprising that Frederick Chilton had sucked dick before; but it was strange that he had been so reluctant about doing it again.

He looked like he enjoyed it, now; he worked his mouth with patent enthusiasm, chin glistening with saliva. He hummed, which made Will shiver, and moaned, evidently not just for show or Will’s pleasure; he also seemed to be getting hard again. He finished Will off with his hands (presumably because of his ill relationship with animal proteins, though it was somewhat funny, considering), but still licked him clean until Will pushed Frederick’s head away from his oversensitive dick.

Frederick was fully hard now, his lips red and cheeks flushed, pupils dilated and eyelids at half-mast. Will pulled him into his lap and kissed the hollow of his throat.

“When was the last time you did it?” he asked, and felt Frederick stiffen.

“Ah, so you noticed. Must be obvious with how good I was,” he snorted bitterly. “To address your question, not since I was in university. I’ve had several covert affairs, but they all ended fairly quickly, and afterwards, I needed to be—careful. For my career, you know. The safest path was not seeing men at all anymore, so I took it. Before you ask, there were one or two girls, all from respectable families, all with the most serious intentions on my part. It hadn’t worked out, and I didn’t pursue marriage anymore. Are you satisfied, now?”

He sounded very tired, and his cock was soft again. They were sitting very close, Chilton draped all over Will, and it seemed natural for him to put his hands around Frederick, pressing a kiss into his shoulder.

“Were you afraid to do what you wanted?” he asked, his word a breath on smooth milky skin.

There was silence, and then a quiet, “Yes.”

“Are you afraid now?” Will asked, kissing the way up to Frederick’s neck, licking off the cool sweat.

“Not anymore. The only thing I have to lose is my life now; everything else has already been taken from me. My position, my reputation, even my health…” he gasped when Will’s fingers slid down his back and into the cleft of his ass. He really was ridiculously sensitive. “Funny how now being outed as gay doesn’t seem much of a threat.”

“Do you want to go to sleep?” Will asked, and Chilton nodded.

“Can you…” he started, and Will said: “Yes.”

He leaned back onto the pillows with Frederick clinging onto him, and loosened his arms to let Chilton get comfortable. Frederick fidgeted a little, staying on top of him all the while, and then quieted down. His breathing evened out, and Will tightened his arms around him.

This way, they would both sleep without nightmares (and probably wake up with hard-ons, but it wasn’t exactly much of a problem, now was it?)

 

Will suspected Hannibal suspected something. He also suspected Jack suspected them, and he knew for a fact that Frederick suspected the worst. Chilton got painfully anxious lately, and nothing seemed to restore his mood to more or less agreeable these days. He would wander around the house, his cane rapping obnoxiously loudly in the quiet of Will’s home. The dogs would follow him and lick his hands, and Frederick wouldn’t even wipe the dog drool away. Will was mildly worried and extremely irritated. But it wasn’t like he had nothing else to worry about, so he let Frederick stew for now. Later there would be time, he decided, to pick up the pieces and put them back together again.

He suspected, of course, that in the meantime his lover might do something drastic or detrimental to their cause of catching Hannibal the Cannibal. (Frederick shared the nickname he invented for Lecter with Will, and Will found he rather liked the term.) That was why he took care to discuss the proceedings with him every night, and fuck him into oblivion afterwards. Will found out the combination considerably helped to clear his mind.

Who knew—maybe without Frederick’s company he would have actually succumbed to Hannibal’s allure. Will couldn’t deny that he did want to, sometimes. After all this time, there still wasn’t anyone who understood Will better than Hannibal, who saw him clearer and sharper, who loved him more and hurt him worse. When they were together, the temptation seemed almost irresistible.

The contrast was harsh; to slip out of his Nietzschean mask every time Will came home where Frederick would wait in the living room, just sitting and staring into the darkness, his hair growing more ragged and eyes more wild by the day. He would stare at Will like he tried to pry open his skin and look inside, see what festered there. Will would speak, and Chilton would shiver, and wouldn’t let him close until Will turned on the lights and washed his hands. Then he wouldn’t leave Will’s side all evening, his eyes dry and hopeless.

Will suspected Frederick was slowly going mad. But, seeing as the same could be said for himself, he thought he couldn’t help much anyway. He fought the battle for the two of them, and for all those who had vanished in the hungry maw of the beast he worked so hard to lure in; the least Frederick could do was wait.

“Tomorrow is the day,” he said one quiet evening, and felt Frederick freeze. “If I die… you know what to do.”

“Yes,” Frederick slowly took off his reading glasses. “I believe I do.”

“Take care of the dogs, will you? They really like you.”

“You sound like you had not expected that at all,” Frederick smirked, his fingers playing with the temple of his glasses.

“That’s probably because I hadn’t,” the corners of Will’s mouth twitched. He closed his laptop. “Do we have anything for dinner?”

“Still not your cook,” Frederick reminded, and got up to serve dinner. Will felt like helping, so he followed him into the kitchen.

 

“Do you think he knows I’m here?” Frederick asked quietly, putting lasagna on the plates.

“I don’t know for sure. You can’t’ know anything for sure with him.”

“So that’s a yes, then. Here, bring these to the table.”

When Will came back Frederick still waited by the stove, fingers clenched tightly on the cane.

“What _I_ think,” he said tightly, “is that he won’t kill you unless he sees that there is no other way of keeping you to himself. But he might try to, how do I put it… sever the ties. See, you might be the raft, yes; but he was never the paddle. He is the river, and I’m the rope stopping you from swimming away.”

He fell silent. The dish was going cold; Will waited.

“What I mean to say is, if you find out the rope is cut… you cut him right back. My haunted spirit won’t settle for anything less.”

Will laughed and kissed his frowning mouth. It felt like holy bread and wine, and for now, Will wanted no other Last Supper.

The lasagna ended up on the floor, but the dogs took care of it. The plates fortunately didn’t break, so there was no need to go off the point. Will lifted Frederick on top of the table and pushed his legs apart. Frederick hastily tore off his shirt, unbuttoned his trousers. Somehow, it felt like their last time together. Will hoped the feeling was born out of deep-seated anxiety rather than his gut instinct; he also decided that he would enjoy this no matter what, so that he’d walk into Hannibal’s house with no regrets tomorrow.

It never stopped surprising Will how much Frederick wanted this; how much he loved getting fucked, getting owned. He would push back and open himself wider, trap Will in the net of his legs and arms, head thrown back and eyes hazy, the quietness of Will’s house broken with moans and screams. He would make those little noises when Will pushed inside, which would soon grow to fill the entire room, reverberating through Will’s body. He would always get so embarrassed, trying to muffle his mouth with his fist or Will’s tie, but then he would just surrender and give in, helpless and desperate and breathy. It made Will feel so overwhelmingly powerful that sometimes he wondered if that was why Hannibal killed: to relive that wonderful feeling, found for the shortest time and lost so easily.

Will thought his way of getting that thrill was better, if only for the absence of trouble with law. _La petite mort_ , with its inevitable speedy revival. This was what he would think about when he’d enter Hannibal’s house, tomorrow.

Will could only hope it was enough.

“More… please, more,” Frederick breathed out. He always tried so hard to maintain his dignity, to not give up and beg.

He failed every single time. Will knew to expect this; waited for this.

He gripped Frederick’s hair (Frederick gasped); bit his bottom lip hard enough to make blood well up (Frederick struggled for breath); and set a punishing rhythm that made the table gouge deep scratches in the floor. He would stop when he felt Frederick tighten around him, body strung high with impending orgasm, and wait out until the tension abated, his hand clenched firmly around the base of Frederick’s cock.

He felt like tonight he could do this for hours. He made Frederick whimper and plead, curse and sob, Frederick even tried to hit him in sheer frustration. Will caught his arm and kissed his fingertips, lightly nipping at them: that always effectively shut Frederick up.

“Please,” Frederick finally said, hoarse and tired, “enough.”

And Will let them both go.

 

They still had some lasagna, which had already gone cold now, but Frederick after sex was sleepy, tired and starving for exactly nothing but bed, blanket and pillows; and Will wasn’t hungry anyway.

They stumbled to Will’s bedroom (which had somehow along the way become _their_ bedroom), most of their clothes frustratingly hindering their movement and thus getting lost en route. Both of them didn’t have the energy for a shower, so they just fell into bed and drifted asleep, holding onto each other, neither trying to sort out the tangled mess of their limbs.

Will jerked awake at night and found out Chilton was sitting beside him and breathing heavily, his eyes wide.

“What?..” Will asked. He wasn’t awake enough yet for the ‘…happened’ part.

“I woke up and saw…” Chilton accusingly pointed his finger. Everywhere around them, watchful eyes glittered.

A soft ‘woof’ broke the tension, and Buster trotted up to the bed to lick Chilton’s naked foot hanging out from the covers. Chilton practically shrieked and swiftly pulled his foot back under the blankets.

“They are watching us,” Will said softly.

“Yes, thank you, I can see _that_ ,” Chilton quipped irately. Will chuckled and pulled him back into bed.

“I’ll tell them to watch you in the day, too. So no one comes here and cuts anything.”

“I’d appreciate it if you came back to do that yourself,” Chilton declared, and resolutely stuck his nose under Will’s armpit.

Frederick held on tightly in his sleep, like he was drowning and there was nothing else to cling on to. Will lay beside him, staring into the ceiling, and counted the minutes until daybreak. He had never felt so peaceful in his entire life. The dogs huffed and yipped quietly before settling to sleep.

Frederick held on so tightly, Will thought, that there would definitely be bruises on Will’s arms in the morning. These marks of Frederick’s hands on Will would probably follow him into the afterlife, if he were to lose tomorrow.

The quiet dark gradually started to give way to dawn, light from the window slowly trickling into the blue shadows and making them fade to a pale, surreal grey. In hours like these, the world around always looked like a dream of a dream, ghostly and evanescent.

Will closed his eyes and let himself drift away on the quiet breathing into his shoulder, distantly feeling Chilton twitch and mumble something unintelligible. Frederick’s arm was slung over his waist, warm and heavy, effectively trapping Will in the uncomfortable position of Chilton’s body pillow.

In the phantom, elusive light of approaching dawn, Will’s world was steady.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all folks, hope you enjoyed the ride!
> 
> The animal proteins idea shamelessly stolen from [this beautiful, beautiful post](http://frederickchiltron.tumblr.com/post/87709892652/diningwiththeasquiths-asking-the-real).

**Author's Note:**

> Title loosely borrowed from a [gorgeous song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GCdwKhTtNNw). Again. *mighty ashamed*
> 
> Idke if Frederick really needs a cane. At first he seemed to lean pretty heavily on it, and then in ep. 7 it looked like he could walk just fine without his disco stick. I'm sticking to the first theory for whump reasons, though.
> 
> The next chapter has smut. Hopefully. (I’m getting to it. This fic was supposed to be pure unrepentant smut ffs! How is there plot in dis shit? D: )


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